Mahabharata

by Carole Satyamurti

  loth to fight his father. But Arjuna,

  thinking his son must be a feeble coward,

  shouted at him, pricking him with insults.

  “Are you a woman? I have come to fight,

  not to chat with you. You’re a kshatriya,

  so fight like one!” Then the young man’s stepmother,

  Ulupi, daughter of the Naga king,

  beautiful, sinuous, rose up through the ground

  and urged her stepson to acquire merit

  by fighting the world’s greatest warrior.

  Reluctant though he was, Babhruvahana

  called for his armor and his chariot,

  having first captured the sacrificial horse.

  He flew toward his father, and loosed a stream

  of arrows, piercing him badly in the shoulder.

  Arjuna was shocked, but gratified

  by his son’s skill. A heroic fight followed,

  son against father, a dazzling display

  delighting both, one of those rare moments

  when war is the best of games. It did not last.

  Soon both warriors were severely wounded;

  then the son, letting fly an iron arrow,

  deeply pierced Arjuna through his breastplate,

  shearing it off his body. Penetrated

  through lungs and heart, Arjuna fell, lifeless.

  Babhruvahana, too, fell to the ground

  fainting from his wounds, and from the shock

  of seeing his father killed—and he the killer!

  News of the event reached Chitrangadaa.

  Shocked, she ran to the scene lamenting loudly,

  and seeing Ulupi there, she turned on her.

  “How could you do this! How can you stand, dry-eyed,

  when my son, whom you encouraged, has just killed

  your husband and mine? Was it jealous spite?

  You must know it is entirely proper

  for men to marry more than a single wife.

  Oh, revive him! I know you have the power.

  I have released the sacrificial horse.

  It is right for a son who kills his father

  to die; but this great Bharata, this hero

  on whom Yudhishthira utterly depends,

  should not be lying here. O Ulupi,

  if you do not bring him back to life

  I shall end my own life before your eyes!”

  Babhruvahana stirred. Seeing Arjuna

  lying lifeless on the bloody ground,

  he wished to die himself. What earthly penance

  could expiate the sin of patricide?

  Hopeless, he sat down to begin a fast

  to death.

  Ulupi summoned a powerful gem

  frequently used by snakes to counter death.

  “Son, you need not grieve. You have done no wrong.

  Your father challenged you—and it was because

  I knew that he had come wanting to test you

  that I spurred you on. And I created

  the illusion of his death. This mighty Arjuna

  has divine origins—he cannot be killed

  by ordinary mortals. To revive him,

  place this gem on his breast.” The young man did so.

  As if roused from a deep, refreshing sleep,

  Arjuna opened his eyes and looked around.

  He was surprised to see the women there.

  Ulupi said, “Listen—I have acted

  entirely for your good. A while ago

  I heard a conversation. The Vasus

  had gone to Ganga, goddess of the river,

  mother of Bhishma, and complained to her

  that you had killed their brother unrighteously,

  shooting him under cover of Shikhandin.

  For this, they proposed to place a curse on you.

  Ganga consented. I was horrified

  and hurried to my wise, compassionate father.

  To protect you, he implored the Vasus

  to offer a concession. They relented.

  ‘When Arjuna is struck down by his own son

  our curse will end. He will have made amends.’”

  Arjuna was profoundly grateful. His son

  and Chitrangadaa were relieved. They asked him

  to spend the night in their palace. Arjuna

  declined. “This horse is wandering at will

  and I must follow. It is not permitted

  that I stop anywhere.” But he invited them

  to Hastinapura for the sacrifice,

  and they assured him that they would attend.

  The sacrificial horse meandered on

  over the earth, between one mighty ocean

  and the other, from the palm-fringed shores

  of the south to the sparkling Himalaya.

  It moved among the ebony Dravidians,

  among the green-eyed warriors of the north,

  among the war-like and the peaceful peoples

  of the Western Ghats.

  Inevitably,

  there were battles. The ruler of Magadha

  rode against Arjuna with enthusiasm.

  Very young, unskilled in weaponry,

  he nonetheless aspired to heroism

  as a kshatriya. At first, Arjuna

  was easy on him, and the boy felt proud

  of his achievements, and wounded Arjuna.

  At that, Arjuna destroyed his bow,

  killed his horses, smashed his other weapons

  and called on him to surrender. The young man

  was glad to do so, and happy to accept

  the invitation to the horse sacrifice.

  In the land of Chedi, Shishupala’s son

  fought, and then conceded to Arjuna,

  as did the rulers of many other kingdoms.

  With some, the battles were mere token fights

  for the sake of self-respect. But the nishadas,

  led by the son of Ekalavya, fought

  furiously before they were defeated.

  So did the vengeful son of Shakuni,

  king of the Gandharas, Arjuna’s cousin.

  He seized the horse, then launched a fierce attack

  and would not give up, even after dozens

  of his soldiers, horses and charioteers

  had been killed. Arjuna spared his life

  because the two were kindred, and because

  Shakuni’s wife came out to intervene

  and had the sacrificial horse set free.

  At last, the horse turned toward Hastinapura.

  Yudhishthira’s sources of intelligence

  brought him the news, and he was overjoyed

  to know that he would soon see Arjuna.

  Bhima consulted brahmins and engineers,

  and supervised construction on a site

  marked as auspicious for the sacrifice.

  Roads were built, and ample living quarters

  to accommodate the many thousands

  of guests who were expected. Bhima sent

  messengers near and far, in all directions,

  to tell royal guests when to arrive.

  In the days preceding the sacrifice,

  people started to assemble. They brought gifts—

  jewels, horses, weapons, female slaves.

  When they looked around, they were amazed.

  Everywhere they turned was luxury;

  every object their eyes fell upon

  seemed to be made of gold. Some remembered

  the rajasuya rite at Indraprastha;

  this was even more magnificent.

  Krishna arrived with his relatives,

  gorgeously adorned, and he brought news

  of Arjuna, and of his many battles.

  “Why is it, Krishna,” sighed Yudhishthira,

  “that Arjuna is so unfortunate?

  Through what fault of his has he undergone

  so many tribulations for my sake?”

  “I see no rea
son,” Krishna said, “except—

  perhaps his cheekbones are too prominent.”

  Draupadi frowned. She could not tolerate

  the slightest criticism of Arjuna

  even as a joke.

  For the great event,

  Bhima had thought of everything, providing

  food on an enormous scale. Thousands

  of brahmins, and a comparable number

  of vaishyas, were fed in relays. Vats of rice,

  tanks of curd, many delicious dishes

  and expensive sweets were served by attendants.

  A messenger arrived from Arjuna—

  within two days, he would be there in person!

  The city buzzed with anticipation

  and at last, after his long journey,

  the Wealth-winner, lean and battle-scarred,

  walked into the city, the horse beside him.

  After greeting his loving family

  he went to bathe and restore his energy,

  sleeping like a man thrown onto shore

  as sole survivor of a storm-tossed voyage.

  Meanwhile Chitrangadaa and Ulupi

  had arrived with Babhruvahana,

  and were warmly welcomed, for Arjuna’s sake,

  by Kunti, Draupadi and Subhadra.

  Beautiful and rare gifts were exchanged.

  Three days later, Vyasa told the king,

  “The signs are favorable; the constellations

  have been scanned by the astrologers.

  The time is right to start the sacrifice.

  Distribute at least three times as much gold

  as is customary. In that way

  you will earn great merit, and any sorrow

  remaining from the Kurukshetra war

  should finally be lifted from your shoulders.”

  Huge crowds of the king’s subjects, from the city

  and all around, had gathered. All was ready.

  Stakes had been erected made of wood

  of diverse kinds, as detailed in the scriptures,

  but decked with gold for the beauty of it,

  and adorned with rich and lovely flags.

  Gold bricks were brought to build a fire altar

  four tiers high, shaped like Garuda.

  Three hundred sacrificial birds and beasts

  were bound to the stakes on the sacred ground.

  Many distinguished seers thronged the enclosure.

  The rites, conducted by the most learned priests

  guided by the Vedas, took several days.

  Soma was pressed and drunk, and in between

  the ceremonies, dancing and sweet music

  were performed by accomplished gandharvas.

  Birds and animals were killed and cooked,

  each dedicated to a specific god.

  The sacrificial horse was brought, then stifled.

  As chief queen, Draupadi lay beside it.

  Then it was dismembered, and its entrails

  were roasted on the fire. The rising smoke—

  that smoke capable of cleansing sin—

  was eagerly inhaled by the Pandavas,

  to the great joy of Yudhishthira.

  When the sacrifice was over, it remained

  for the Dharma King to distribute riches.

  Now he was ruler of the earth, he offered

  that earth to Vyasa, as the chief priest.

  Vyasa returned it, asking for its equivalent

  in wealth, which Yudhishthira duly gave.

  This was divided among brahmins. Giving

  was expiation for Yudhishthira.

  The brahmins shared the artifacts between them:

  gold bricks from the altar, the stakes, the arches.

  Yudhishthira then, in order of precedence,

  loaded his guests with gold, jewels, treasure.

  Vyasa gave his share of wealth to Kunti,

  for her to use in charitable acts.

  Just when everything seemed to be over,

  and all involved were greatly satisfied,

  a large, blue-eyed mongoose approached the priests,

  one side of its body shining gold.

  In a booming voice, it said, “This sacrifice,

  grand as it was, was not nearly the equal

  of the coarse barley given by the brahmin

  of Kurukshetra.” The priests were astounded

  and quite indignant. Speaking all at once,

  they enumerated all the rituals,

  all the procedures, scrupulously observed,

  the gifts distributed, the benefits . . .

  How could this sacrifice possibly have been

  bettered? “Let me tell you,” said the mongoose.

  “

  IN KURUKSHETRA, there lived a devout brahmin, committed to a gleaning lifestyle. He subsisted on the grains of barley he gathered from the ground, after the harvest had been gathered in. He lived with his wife, son and daughter-in-law, and their existence was a happy, if frugal one.

  “It happened that famine came to the land. The small store of grain the family had put by dwindled, and then was almost gone. They suffered. Day after day they went hungry as the brahmin found almost nothing to glean from the fields. One day, he managed to gather enough barley to make a small meal for the four of them. They ground the barley and made a porridge from it; then they sat down to eat. At that moment, an unexpected guest presented himself at their door. They greeted him warmly, and invited him to sit down with them.

  “The guest was obviously hungry, and the brahmin gave him his own share of the barley porridge. The guest ate it, and still looked hungry. ‘Let him have my share,’ the wife whispered to her husband. But the brahmin was unhappy with this suggestion, knowing that his wife was reduced to mere skin and bone, and faint from hunger. ‘My duty is to sustain you to the best of my ability,’ he said. ‘I cannot bear to see you giving up your meal.’ ‘But I have joined my life to yours,’ she answered. ‘You have given me all you have—and you have given me our beloved son. In return for so many favors, let me give you my share of porridge and you can give it to our guest.’ So another portion of porridge was set before the guest. But his appetite was still not satisfied.

  “‘Father,’ said the son, ‘please give our guest my portion.’ The brahmin was reluctant to accept. ‘I brought you into this world; it is only right that I look after you to the best of my ability.’ ‘As your son, I am part of you,’ said the young man, ‘and I should serve you in whatever way I can. I know that you will suffer greatly if you cannot perform your duty as a host. Please take my share.’ So the brahmin accepted, and gave the porridge to the guest. He ate it, and was still hungry.

  “Seeing this, the brahmin became sad and thoughtful. Then his daughter-in-law said, ‘Father, take my share. Through your son—and therefore through you—I shall obtain a son. Thanks to you I shall know great happiness. Please take my porridge and give it to our guest.’ The brahmin, seeing the girl wasted and weak, was very unhappy at this suggestion. But she persuaded him that, by accepting, he would be enabling her to obtain great merit. So he took her meal and gave it to the guest.

  “The guest then revealed himself to them as Dharma, the god of righteousness. ‘I am delighted with you,’ he said, ‘and so are the deities in heaven. With a pure heart, you have given me everything you have. Such a gift is worth far more than many a lavish consecration ceremony and horse sacrifice, because it is your entire wealth, and is offered without reserve. Your hard life on this earth is over. By your kindness to me today, you are assured of heaven.’ Then flowers rained down from the sky, and the brahmin family ascended into heaven.

  “All this,” said the mongoose, “I witnessed from my hole in the ground. When the family had gone to heaven, I came out; and what with the flowers, and the water the guest had been given to wash his holy feet, and what with the scraps of barley, and the scent of sanctity, my head and half my body turned to gold. Ever since, I have been attend
ing hermitages, pilgrimages, and sacrifices, in the hope of finding an example of devotion to match that of the brahmin family. In that way, the rest of my body could be changed to gold. That is why I came to this horse sacrifice, having heard of King Yudhishthira’s devotion to dharma. But I have been disappointed.”

  Having spoken, the mongoose disappeared

  and the brahmins, astonished and impressed,

  made their way in silence to their homes.

  On hearing this story, King Janamejaya

  was perplexed. “It is well known,” he said

  to Vaishampayana, “that sacrifices,

  properly performed by learned priests,

  bring great benefits. Why, then, did that mongoose

  treat Yudhishthira’s great horse sacrifice

  with such contempt?”

  “Millions of ascetics,”

  replied Vaishampayana, “have attained

  heaven through practicing renunciation,

  self-control, compassion and truthfulness,

  without the need to take the lives of creatures.

  Sacrifice is not so wonderful.”

  “Who was the half-gold mongoose?” asked the king.

  Vaishampayana told him this story:

  “

  ONCE THE SEER Jamadagni collected milk from his cow, to use in a shraddha ceremony. To test the seer’s forbearance, Anger spoiled the milk. But Jamadagni, staying calm, sent Anger to see the ancestors, since it was they who had been deprived of the milk.

  “The ancestors cursed Anger to take the form of a mongoose. He would only become free of the curse by censuring dharma. Through his condemnation of Yudhishthira’s sacrifice, the curse was lifted, since Yudhishthira was the Dharma King.”

  XV

  THE BOOK OF THE HERMITAGE

  58.

  THE RETREAT OF THE ELDERS

  Hastinapura. Life at court took on

  a pleasant pattern. The horse sacrifice

  had helped to reconcile Yudhishthira

  to his royal burden, and he soon became

  a most judicious ruler, compassionate

  even to enemies. Always in his mind

  were Bhishma’s teachings.

  He never forgot,

  for a single day, the harrowing price paid

  for the great kingdom that he now possessed.

  The searing loss endured by Dhritarashtra

  and Gandhari could never be repaired.

  But the king made sure as far as possible

  that the aged couple should enjoy a life

  similar to the one they led before.